


What Gives It Value

by motorcyclefl1p



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt No Comfort, Missing Scene, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-06-24 00:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19712737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorcyclefl1p/pseuds/motorcyclefl1p
Summary: A lot can happen in five years, and after.  (Missing scenes from "Endgame" and my own lame attempt, again, at a Romanogers-biased fix-it.)





	1. Chapter 1

It had been a beautiful ceremony. Leave it to Pepper to pull together in two weeks a wedding that looked like it had been planned for months. Even though Tony still hadn’t fully recovered yet from his ordeal in space, he’d looked pretty damn happy. 

Thor and Bruce had left immediately afterward, each going his own way, mumbling vague promises to keep in touch.

Now at the reception, Natasha sipped her champagne and joined in the applause as Rhodey finished his best man’s toast. Nobody said anything about how his voice broke repeatedly during his speech, how Tony was uncharacteristically quiet and, for the first time in public, didn’t have anything glowing in his chest through his clothes, or how well Pepper had organized the party even as the world outside the palatial, many-chandeliered white tent still reeled from its losses.

The canapés were small delicious masterpieces of avocado and caviar, and Natasha regretfully realized she had no appetite.

She made her escape as the celebrating couple embarked on a round of photographs through the extensive guestlist. She found to no surprise at all that Steve was already at the car, waiting for her. 

For long moments they stood, silently staring toward the distant noise and lights from the wedding party as if unwilling to leave until, by some unspoken agreement, they finally got in the car and drove off.

Steve hardly spoke on the trip home, instead filling the air with classical music radio. Natasha nodded off, but woke up just as the gigantic “A” sign came into view over the top of the slope through the trees. One of the floodlights over the logo had gone out. 

As they coasted up the driveway, she glanced over the darkened windows across the compound, the lawn grass starting to turn brown in the summer heat. She made a mental note to personally check the sprinklers. Maria had used to oversee property maintenance, along with the three thousand other bits of daily nitty-gritty she’d handled seemingly so effortlessly until not too long ago.

They drew up to the entrance and Steve turned off the engine, but neither of them made a move to get out of the car. With the radio abruptly off, the night crowded around them, dense with the hum of cicadas.

“You okay?” His deep voice was even gentler than usual.

She gave him a watery smile. “Tears of joy.”

He sniffed a laugh. “Yeah, I know.” He stared at his hands on the steering wheel. “They’re lucky to still have each other.”

At the end of it all. After the battles and the missions and the long periods apart. After all the Iron Man suits and the arguments and the Towers and the homes destroyed. After the snap. After Titan. Natasha nodded wistfully. No wonder Tony and Pepper had seen little point in waiting around to tie the knot.

Natasha took a deep breath to brace herself, then placed her hand over Steve’s. “And us?”

He turned shadowed eyes to her and she nearly took it back. But she had put off this conversation long enough. 

“Do _we_ still have each other?” she pressed quietly.

He paused, then brought her hand to his lips. His kisses across her knuckles were tender, slow, heartfelt. His breath gusting over her fingers would have thrilled her any other time, but instead Natasha felt something growing heavy in the pit of her stomach.

There had been something between them, until recently. Now it felt like a lifetime ago, ached in her bones like a thousand years had passed when she knew it had only been a few weeks. He had been different then. _They_ had been different then, something powerful and vital always between them, never put into words, for sure, but never doubted. She’d never wanted to say anything lest she ruin whatever it was that rang so true between them. But ever since the snap—ever since the loss—he had never again come to her at night.

And then he’d brought out the compass, as he hadn’t in a long time.

“You know, I’m sorry,” she blurted out, now being as good a time as any. “About that time with Tony.” She snatched her hand back, clenched it nervously in her lap. “When he got back he started blaming you for what happened. And I just stood by and didn’t do a damn thing. Didn’t _say_ a damn thing.”

 _Liar,_ Tony had spat. Steve hadn’t said anything then either.

“It’s all right.” She was startled to find that under the grimness and stoicism he looked _resigned,_ and that pained her more than any anger he might have shown instead. “I deserved it. He was right.”

“No he wasn’t,” said Natasha crisply. Then, “Not completely,” she allowed.

He almost smiled. “He wasn’t wrong.”

“Neither were you.” She could say few other things with such certainty these days.

“He was tired, Nat. Grieving. We all were.” Steve sighed. “He needed to say what he said. Get it out of his system.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you're going to tell your groups?”

He eyed her, thin-lipped, and she almost laughed, because for a moment there she thought she’d glimpsed the old Cap—ever the pillar of sobriety and justice.

“People lash out sometimes. They get angry.” As one, they got out of the car and began to head inside. “It happens.”

He held the door open for her, avoiding her gaze, and Natasha remembered that he’d been in at least one more war than any of them. Seen more death. Lost more men. 

And this time, they couldn’t even say they’d won.

Looking up into his shuttered face, Natasha felt smaller than she had in a long time. Reaching up, she cradled his face in her hand, and warmth blossomed in her chest as he leaned fractionally into her touch, his eyes falling shut.

“It wasn’t your fault, Steve,” she whispered.

She didn’t miss the sudden shift in his jaw, the tightening of his mouth. The warmth in her body turned to ice. “It wasn’t,” she repeated firmly over the ache inside her as he turned away, shaking his head. “You can’t believe that. Nobody believes that. I’ll say it over and over again till you actually agree with me,” she called after him as he headed into the lobby ahead of her.

“It’s late, Nat,” was all he said, entering the elevator, Natasha following determinedly behind. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to bed.”

The ride up was dead silent and mercifully short. They arrived at his floor first. Natasha watched wordlessly as Steve started to exit, then paused.

“Have you heard from Clint?” He didn’t even turn to look at her. “I know Pepper tried to get in touch with him.”

She said nothing. There was nothing to say, and she knew he knew. She wished she had the energy to resent him for asking. He stepped out of the elevator and, almost reluctantly, met her gaze.

“Good night, Natasha.”

The doors closed on eyes deep with the blue of a starless night.

_to be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

They got back in the wee hours of morning, too tired for words, heading for their rooms with barely more than a grunt or a nod to sign off. The entire trip home in the quinjet Steve had looked forward to a hot shower, a clean bed, an hour’s rest, preferably twenty.

But when he got to his suite he couldn’t find it in him to turn on the light or even change out of his uniform. The silence shrilled in his ears and he knew, tonight as on most other nights, that he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep.

Even when he did nod off these days, he often woke screaming. Or crying. 

Piece by piece he shrugged out of his gear as he padded into the room, dropping his harness and kit belt on the floor, discarding his gloves, leaving his earpiece on a side table. He ignored his own resulting unease, his military training chafing against the disorder. As he stood looking out the bay window he suddenly became aware of Natasha’s presence in the room behind him by the door, and he wondered how long he had been idly watching the wind outside, stirring the treetops across the way in the murky gray before dawn.

“Care to explain what happened back there, Rogers?” 

He sighed. “It’s late, Natasha.” He was almost getting used to calling her by her full name again. Knowing she was watching him, he slumped into an armchair and turned on a lamp.

She didn’t move as he began removing his boots. “That’s not an answer to my question.”

He said nothing, merely kicked off the boots into a corner. Socks soon followed. She came over to stand in front of him, arms crossed over her chest as she stared down at him implacably. She wasn’t one to simply drop the issue. 

“Mission successful,” he bit out. “Target neutralized. Survivors turned over to designated authorities.”

“And you very nearly took a hit.” He averted his eyes then, busied himself with unfastening his jacket. “You of all people, you stood there and you knew there was incoming and you almost didn’t move.”

He sighed, tossing his jacket to the floor, still not meeting her gaze. She’d been there, after all, at his side as usual on that rusty tub of a ship that hid a satellite communications center in its belly and sidelined as an offshore drug laboratory. He’d heard her frenzied shout of his name, a millisecond after she realized what was happening, a millisecond after he did. After so much time in combat together, she must have thought she didn’t need to warn him. He’d leaped out of the way at the last moment. “But I did.”

She had promptly made short work of his would-be assailant, shattering bones in a show of force that only she and Steve knew was strictly excessive. As the poor fool sobbed in pain behind her she’d glared at Steve, daring him to raise an objection.

“But you could have, sooner. We both know this.” When he said nothing, she stepped closer, crouched at his feet to look up into his face. “Hey,” she said, more softly, when he still refused to look at her. Reaching up, she cupped his cheek in her hand tenderly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Despite himself he leaned into her palm, breathing deep for what felt like the first time in weeks. He remembered that moment vividly. Though his head had been turned at the time and his attention focused elsewhere, he’d heard the shell deploy, the whoosh as it took flight, the churn of air in its wake. He’d known with the perfect accuracy of his enhanced senses and all his years of experience in the field that the shell was headed straight for him and in that fraction of a moment he had only thought, _Why not?_

Then she’d called out to him, and he’d belatedly remembered that even now there was still something he couldn’t bear to lose, still something he shouldn’t just throw away. And even as the shell exploded harmlessly in the deck behind them she had already been surging forward in a blur of blond hair and light-crackling batons, vengeance blazing in her eyes.

Gently he folded her hand in both of his. Lifetimes ago the same calloused, fine-boned fingers had skated seduction along his skin, thrust into his hair, teasing, guiding, welcoming. “I’m just a little tired.”

She sighed. “I know you haven’t been sleeping well.” 

He almost smiled. He could probably count the nights he’d “slept well” in the last several months on his fingers. Her eyes met his and she smirked for him for a moment, just a flash of the familiar wry twist of her mouth.

“Y’know,” she said slowly, “not too long ago, I asked you. If it were up to me to save your life, would you trust me to do it?”

Now _that_ was a long time ago. _I did then._

“What about now?”

Her face was shadowed with hurt. Remorse twisted in his chest. The Black Widow could wring the deepest secrets from the most hardened liars, but this was Natasha at his feet, for so long his proud ally, through so much his loyal friend. And, far too briefly, his passionate lover. He’d never said anything, but the first night he’d kept himself from going to her—clamped down on the longing and the loneliness with the cold finality of shame—was seared into his memory. She’d never called him out, never asked why. He wouldn’t have known what to tell her. 

She looked up into his eyes now, guileless and gentle, and he knew he had long owed her at least some small accounting of himself. 

“I’m compromised,” he began, unsure how to continue, afraid he might never stop. As the weight of her stare became unbearable, he glanced away. “I’m losing sight of the mission. I’m not even sure _why_ there’s still a mission, or why I’m on it.” His attempt at a laugh turned ugly. “Given that I _failed_ the last mission. No, Nat.” He cut off the protest already sparking in her eyes. “It’s true.”

“We _all_ failed the last mission.” The sob caught in her throat, the tears spilled down her face, but her tone was like steel. “We _all_ lost somebody. We failed _together._ You can’t keep punishing yourself for something that wasn’t just your fault,” she called after him as he abruptly got up and stalked over to the window. 

Maybe this was finally what it felt like to be a hundred years old. His eyes burned when he closed them.

“For the longest time all I wanted was to be strong,” he said at last, almost to himself. “I was this sick, skinny little kid nobody wanted on their side because I couldn’t do anything for anybody. I could barely look out for myself.” _Bucky did a lot of that for me._ But words felt too cheap, the loss too sacred. He scrubbed his hand over his face. “All I wanted was to make a difference, the only way I knew how. At that time it was so easy. Everything was so clear.”

She had moved to stand behind him, her presence silent but reassuring as always. Yet again he pushed back the desire to reach out for her, to close even the small distance that yawned between them. It wasn’t his place, he told himself, as he had told himself a thousand times before. Not anymore.

“Now I’m all I ever wanted to be and it turns out it doesn’t change a damn thing,” he said quietly.

The glass felt blessedly cool on his skin as he rested his forehead against the window. He had run the full gamut of his emotions more times than he cared to count in the months since Thanos and he knew now, with bone-weary certainty, that feeling any more of his feelings wouldn’t make any difference, no matter how painfully they consumed him, burned through him from the inside out, ate into his bones, smoldered in his lungs. Even if he ended up curled up in a ball on the floor, sobbing as if his heart was broken. Even if Natasha found him and they cried together, clinging to each other in the darkness.

“You gave it everything you had,” she said softly. “Nobody could have asked any more of you.”

“But it still wasn’t enough.” In his mind’s eye he saw Bucky, wielding a gun as he hadn’t had to in years, slashing doggedly with his knife at the nightmarish thing that managed to pin him down. He saw Sam, swooping and firing desperately at Thanos only to be swatted aside like an insect, spent bullets clattering on the ground. Steve remembered the ear-popping silence that fell soon after that, the dawning sense of horror and hopelessness that the monster left behind. He felt again the strange dust slithering between his fingers and he shivered, clenching his fist and closing his eyes as if he could physically shut out the memory. “I was supposed to lead you—”

“It was a bad hand, Steve.” Her arms came up around him, soothing, subduing. “We all knew what we were in for. We took our chances. We played the odds. Sometimes the house just wins.” Her voice cracked with bitterness. “Sometimes the house is a giant purple alien sociopath whom no amount of training in this world can prepare you for and not even Wakanda can keep out.”

He remembered again the ashes sifting incomprehensibly through his hands where Bucky had shimmered like a dream only moments before, and how’d he looked around frantically to realize who else had already gone: T’Challa, Sam, Wanda, even the tree-creature who had seemingly come out of nowhere to fight with them. Through the trees had come echoing one by one horrified yells and shouts from the battlefield beyond and, as if in response, the dull, blank confusion inside him, the void Bucky had so suddenly left behind, had taken form—no, _no, nonono_ —and then erupted into a wild and wordless howl of agony.

Sometimes he felt as if he were still screaming. 

“Wanda told me once about something you said to her.” Natasha’s soft voice pierced the numbness; she pressed welcome, solid warmth into his back. “We try to save as many people as we can.” Her voice crumbled into a whisper. “Sometimes that doesn’t mean everybody.”

She crumpled against him and he turned, held her gently, his own eyes too parched now for tears. 

She’d held him like this once, years ago, in an empty church. 

“I’ve said a lot of things,” Steve murmured. _Every time somebody tries to win a war before it starts, innocent people die._ He wondered if Tony still remembered. He certainly did.

He’d been so damn _sure_ of himself, once upon a time.

 _We don’t trade lives._

He squeezed his eyes shut against the image of Vision sprawled sightless on the ground, Wanda lost on the breeze, her head still thrown back in soundless grief. Steve shuddered. He’d only ever wanted them to have what he hadn’t.

“We couldn’t have known.” Natasha sounded tired but firm in his ear. “Nobody could have known.”

Tony had known. In his own way. “And all you wanted was for us to stay together.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Nat.” 

Her arms tightened around him. “It was never really up to us, Steve.”

The sun’s first rays found them in his bed, still fully clothed, her bent over him, him curled desperately into the shelter of her arms. Later he would be grateful that, for the first time in a long while, he’d slept without dreaming.

She put him on indefinite sick leave.

_to be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

“I found a place,” he announced one day over breakfast, as if her world wasn’t suddenly going to end. Again. “Brooklyn, too. Only a couple stops from the VA down there. The housing market is nuts these days.” 

There was suddenly a gaping ache in her chest where her heart used to be, but Natasha said nothing. She kept her breathing even and her hands steady as she poured herself some coffee, because she was only human, after all, and denial was an instinctual thing. She’d known something was up when she came downstairs that morning to find that he’d moved breakfast out onto one of the terraces—food, table, chairs, and all. She’d scented change in the air and she hadn’t liked it one bit.

He’d told her some weeks ago, casually, that he was thinking of moving out. She hadn’t brought up the fact that he had yet to join another mission since he’d gone on leave, had shown little interest in other operations. Instead he’d been spending more and more time out at the VA center downtown. Though she’d never said anything, she’d noticed him letting his routine slip when before he’d never missed a training exercise, never so much as skipped a morning jog. Some part of herself that Nat ruthlessly denied existed had hoped against hope that he’d simply drop the idea of leaving, even if he was now leading group counseling nights instead of just participating in them and taking on more duties at the center besides. She’d told herself he was healing at least, in ways he couldn’t at the compound, and he’d be back good as new before she knew it. She’d kept herself busy, coordinating with the other Avengers, organizing resources, setting up ops, consulting for governments.

And so she hadn’t seen much of Steve around lately, but now he seemed his most cheerful in a long time as he piled eggs onto his plate. The light had almost come back in his eyes. She swallowed a bite of her oatmeal past the painful knot in her throat.

“So when’s Rhodey coming back? Or Bruce?”

He had the nerve to feign innocence as she leveled a death stare at him. They both knew Bruce hadn’t made any contact since the night of Tony’s wedding, and Rhodes wasn’t expected back from the Hague for a while yet.

“I think the more _important_ question is”—she leaned over and stole some of his bacon because he at least owed her that, damn it—“when can I put your rooms on Airbnb?” She bit off half the piece of bacon in her hand and gestured expansively with the remainder before he could notice the tremor in her fingers. “I’ll frame your uniform and we can split the price difference, because I’m generous like that.”

“Pretty sure I’m still known as an international criminal more than anything else,” he joked, looking down as he buttered his toast.

She was glad he wouldn’t see her smirk waver. “I’m counting on it.” Licking bacon grease off her fingers, she pretended that a thought suddenly struck her. “I’ll probably have to nail it to the wall though, or it’ll be gone after the first night. Or, y’know.” She waggled her eyebrows at him. “Worse.”

She basked in the waves of confusion and, subsequently, horror that washed over his still-too-honest face. She’d miss this, damn him. 

“The case should be unbreakable,” he mumbled through a mouthful of toast. “Maybe put some laser beams in front.”

“Not sure you’re in any position to make requests.” Natasha arched an eyebrow at him as she swiped his last piece of bacon. “It’s not like you’d _be_ here anymore to notice.” 

He looked like a kicked puppy. “Nat,” he began.

“It’s okay, Steve. I understand.” She patted his hand in mock sympathy. “I’ll just put up a replica.” She flashed him a grin. “The originals are for the Smithsonian, of course.”

He groaned, smiled, shook his head. She wondered how long she had until he, too, disappeared from her life completely. She picked over the fruit basket to hide her face.

“So you’re not going to hang on to your old suits, then? To be honest, I don’t think even Friday can get all the mud stains out by now.” She knew her casual tone wouldn’t fool him, but she had her pride. 

His smile was rueful. “You know I can’t make any promises at this point, Nat.” He sat back in his chair, eyeing her somberly. “Do whatever you want.”

The words went through her like a bullet. She nodded and quickly looked down at her bowl, not trusting herself to speak past the knot in her throat, filing away the memory of his shadowed blue eyes with all the other mental images she never revisited except on nights she was alone and sad and had had a little more to drink than was altogether conducive to good decision-making. She suspected she was in for many more such nights ahead.

He tried belatedly to salvage the situation. “You’re already doing such a great job running the Avengers,” he said placatingly. “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

In a past life, she would have butter-knifed his hand into the table, just to make her feelings clear. Now she just shook her head at him and pointedly began stacking plates. 

He stood up and bustled around the table to help put dishes away. Natasha was just setting aside her coffee cup, reaching for a paper towel, when he suddenly hugged her from behind. His arms were massive around her waist but gentle, so gentle, and so familiar, and for a moment she clutched at him, biting her lip that had started to tremble, shuddering with the effort to keep herself from breaking down right then and there.

“I’ll just be, like, ten minutes away,” he lied, because it was more like twenty and she knew how he hated going over the speed limit if he could help it. “And you know you can call me anytime. For anything.” He pressed a kiss to her wet cheek. “You’ll be glad to get me out of your hair, you’ll see.”

She closed her eyes, drew a shaky breath. She wanted to be supportive, she really did. She was happy for him if he felt better now, had processed the pain and defeat as she suspected she still refused to, deep down inside. She knew he enjoyed working at the VA, making new friends, feeling that he was useful again, drawing on his own experiences of loss and lostness to help people. Natasha couldn’t begrudge him the sense that people finally appreciated him for more than just the physical abilities Dr. Erskine had given him. He deserved to feel valued for the man he’d always been. 

And he’d always wanted to live in Brooklyn again. Natasha sighed. Maybe it was just time for him and the Avengers to finally part ways. They—she—would just have to learn how to keep on without him.

Natasha willed her voice to be steady. “Get on out of here already and take your stupid midlife crisis with you.”

His chuckle came as a huff of warm breath at the back of her neck, but his tone was serious and sincere when he murmured, “I’m sorry, Nat.”

He was always sincere, damn him. Blinded by tears, she squeezed his hand and, for a moment, he squeezed back.

Then he was gone, his footsteps trailing away down the hall and off to the elevators, even and measured. He didn’t stop or look back.

Maybe she should keep the breakfast table outside for a few months yet. The nice thing about being in the open air on an upper floor of the sprawling, empty compound on such a breezy day was that no one—not even a supersoldier with enhanced hearing—would hear Natasha cry.

_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watching "Endgame", I couldn't shake the feeling that there was a significant distance between Nat and Steve from the beginning and that--even before those soul-destroying last few minutes--Steve was strangely dark and cranky. This may contradict other folks' reading of the same scenes, but I hope what I've come up with makes sense anyway.
> 
> Also, I've always been terrible with titles, so please accept my profuse apologies and I would shamelessly appreciate any suggestions for improvement in this regard, as in any other ;)


	4. Chapter 4

_Extraction in 10 outside yours.  
Wear the Cap-links :)_

Steve stared bemused down at his phone as he absent-mindedly toweled his shower-wet hair. He hadn’t heard from her in a while, not since Morgan’s birthday some months back when she’d suddenly picked him up in the quinjet and neither of them had mentioned how they preferred not to go to the party alone. He had just turned to put the beer back in the refrigerator, still wondering if he should remind her he had retired, when he heard his phone chirp another alert.

_Feel free to bring your laundry :p_

Headlights glinted off the enameled stars-and-stripes on his sleeves as the sleek silver sedan pulled up to the curb on the dot. The window powered down as he approached, a battered duffel bag of laundry hoisted over his shoulder and contrasting oddly with his crisp black suit. 

“Hey, stranger.” 

The familiar throaty purr sparked something hot inside his chest. He peered in the open window at gleaming green eyes. “My machine broke down not two hours ago, Nat.”

“I’ve missed you too, Cap,” she drawled. “I’m glad to see you followed orders.”

He grinned at her. She’d given him the cuff links several years ago for Christmas, each designed to look like a miniature shield (official Captain America™ merchandise of course, 100% made in the USA; employee discount, free gift wrapping). This was the first time he’d worn them. 

“You know, I had a whole glamorous night in all planned for myself.” He tossed the duffel bag in the back seat and climbed in the front. The car pulled into the street as he fastened his seatbelt. “Couple of beers, pizza delivery, six-hour documentary marathon...”

“Vikings or animals?” 

“Anim... I meant Vikings, of course the Vikings—”

“Of _course_ the Vikings.” Street lights glimmered off the sequins on her dress as they turned a corner. “You’ve only _done_ the animals marathon three and a half times already.”

He’d fallen asleep the last time. She looked especially gorgeous tonight, even if she was smirking at his expense. He tore his gaze away from her to look out the window at storefronts streaking past. “Last time I checked, I was retired.” They were heading Midtown.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Sincere underneath the humor, she gave him a sidelong glance. “I’ve got two tickets, but I can drop you off at the laundromat instead if you prefer.”

No doubt she already knew which laundromat was his favorite, even though it wasn’t the nearest one to his apartment. “It’s okay. I suited up, didn’t I?” 

The corners of her eyes crinkled in her smile. God, he’d missed her. 

They joined a queue of vehicles that snaked glitteringly from the street up into a driveway. “This is ‘Swan Lake’,” Natasha pointed out, although Steve hadn’t missed the huge colorful banners down the front of the building announcing exactly that. “Boy meets girl, girl turns out cursed to be a swan unless she finds true love, boy cheats on her without really meaning to, girl dies. That’s the version with the sad ending, anyway.” Briefing over, her smile turned teasing. “If you don’t fall asleep, I’ll treat you to dinner afterward.”

He’d never attended the ballet before. It had never held any particular fascination for him, but as the curtain finally came down on the third round of crashing applause at the end he found himself wondering how he’d missed it. Already his fingers itched to sketch the long, lean lines of muscle and bone, the elegant lift of a chin, the graceful flutter of a slender hand. Beside him Natasha dabbed at her eyes.

“It was one of my first missions at SHIELD,” she said abruptly, digging into her Chinese takeout at headquarters. She had changed into a ratty sweatshirt, her hair out of its coif and curling around her shoulders, red at the roots. His jacket and tie hung over a chair. Elsewhere in the building, the first load of his laundry tumbled merrily in the machine. “Human trafficking, Eastern Europe. Major revenue stream for terrorists, as you know. Kids mixed in with the adults.” Steve glanced at her, but her face was carefully neutral. “Fury found them places, I’m not even sure where. Not all of them had families. Not all of them had families who would take them back.” There was a faraway look in her eyes as she pursed her lips around her chopsticks. “Oksana made principal dancer a few years ago, but this was her debut as Odette-Odile.” She quirked one corner of her mouth at him. “I didn’t want to miss it.”

He smiled back. “She was amazing. Thanks for bringing me along.”

She shrugged, but looked pleased with herself. “I thought she had talent.” 

As she fished around in her takeout box for the last morsels of cashew chicken he strode slowly across the room, his hands in his pockets. Outside the main office the empty complex was shrouded in shadow and, in some places, a thin layer of dust; but inside she had cleared a space for them amidst the books and files, and the lamps threw cozy circles of warm light. Here and there pilot lights glowed green: no urgent notifications. Little had changed in the few years since he’d last been here, watching over the world with her. After Thanos, he remembered, he’d done so with an increasing sense of futility.

In the corner there was still the corkboard he’d put up amidst the screens and monitors, because there was something to be said for actually looking at and holding things that weren’t just electronic pinpoints of light and he refused to be told otherwise. Tony and Clint had noticed right away, of course, and Steve had had to withstand a good thirty minutes of ribbing about his stubborn fondness for index cards. (“So... so _analog,”_ and Tony had shuddered, like it was a fate worse than death.) The photograph he’d tacked up ages ago—“the graduating class of 2015,” Bruce had quipped—wasn’t there anymore; instead he found it framed and hung, with pride of place, on a nearby wall. Natasha’s work, no doubt. The pinhole from his thumbtack was barely visible under the glass. 

With an almost physical effort he forced himself to look at the photograph. He didn’t have any photographs at his apartment. It had been the twins’ birthday, and everyone had gathered for a party. Wanda stood smiling up at the camera between Clint and Vision, whose ghastly approximation of “cheese” still made Steve chuckle out loud, even if the sound came out a little strangled tonight. Natasha winked elaborately from behind the bar, both hands full as she mixed cocktails for Maria, Nick, and Pepper. Thor and Tony wore similar broad grins and smears of frosting across their faces, because the cake-smashing would begin in earnest as soon as the picture was taken. Steve himself was off to the side, his smile strained with disgust at the waste of perfectly good cake, and Sam had slung an arm each around him and Bruce while flashing his usual sunny smile. The photo was slightly skewed; Sam had still been trying to get the hang of controlling Redwing.

“I can give you a copy of that if you want,” she said from her seat at the table.

He smiled. Maybe later.

“You’ve really found your place, Nat.” He hefted his bag of clean laundry as they pulled up to the curb outside his apartment building. Inside the car it was heady with the smell of fabric softener. “I’m happy for you.”

“I do what I can.” Her smile softened as she turned to him. “You know you’re always welcome to come back, right?”

He chuckled. “You seem to be doing just fine without me.”

“Steve.” 

He glanced at her, almost shy, but she was still smiling. “Tell ‘em I said hi,” he said at last.

She nodded, searching his face. “Will do.”

It reminded him of old times, her looking at him from the quinjet’s pilot seat; sometimes asking, sometimes laughing, sometimes knowing what he needed to see in her eyes even before he did. I’ve missed you, he wanted to say, and more. But then maybe she knew that already, like so much else about him.

“I don’t suppose I could offer you a cup of coffee for the road.” 

She knew he was only half joking. Her smile turned wistful. “I’d love that, but I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

“Right, right.” How many times had they said that to one another, the night before a mission? “You know”—he paused, his hand on the door—“I still have my old keys.”

She grinned. “Well, I did stockpile your favorite kind of laundry detergent.”

She’d looked lovely earlier tonight, in her jewelry and coiffure and perfect makeup; but now he wanted to feel her hair curl delicately around his fingers, her soft mouth open to his. He didn’t want to stare, so he looked hastily away and down instead, to where his cuff link caught the light. “You know all my weaknesses.”

He never did get around to having his washing machine fixed.

_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On second thought, the previous chapter seemed a bit too bleak, and the latest MCU revelations have got me down with missing my favorite Avengers, so here's a little bit more of a laugh :)


	5. Chapter 5

He would remember her that way—

The deadly fire in her eyes as she unloaded clip after clip into the target,

The total focus on her face as she pounded her fists into the heavy bag,

How she cried when she thought she was alone

(If he could sneak up on her at all, he’d learned it from her.)

Even five years on she’d still been crying, like she’d bravely taken on all the tears he’d given up crying for himself.

“How do you wear your heart on your sleeve like that?” he’d asked once, wonderingly, one rare time she’d drunk as much as she wanted to even though he was around to see it and she’d wet his shirt down with a new flood of grief. When she drank he couldn’t help putting on Cap’s Frown of Disapproval—Nat had cackled even louder at the surprise on his face; apparently this had been a thing behind his back the whole time—because she could definitely pack it away but that shit would kill you by inches, everyone knew that, and he hated that she would let that happen. He’d gotten this body by a miracle, but she’d been born like that, molded herself like that—all strength and smarts and silky curves he wished he could let himself touch, and he always hated it when great things went to waste.

But that time it had been her birthday, and he knew this was all the celebration she permitted herself in the empty, echoing husk of the Avengers facility. So he hadn’t commented on the truly alarming number of bottles she steadily polished off as they sat together on the bare, cold concrete of the terrace and gazed up at the stars. Fewer people on the planet meant a lot less light pollution.

Her gaze on him was clearer than might have been expected; her words were only slightly slurred. “What do you mean?”

“For whatever reason”—a shooting star streaked across the sky, but oh, where to begin to make a wish—“I somehow thought the Black Widow would be, I dunno...” He glanced at her out the corner of his eye as her head lolled back against the wall, just a little. “A lot less weepy.”

She burst out laughing. It was an excuse to sneak an arm around her waist; he didn’t want her toppling over now. “You’re an asshole, Steve Rogers.”

“It’s been said,” he conceded readily, grinning. He blamed the cask that had arrived earlier from New Asgard, with Thor’s heartiest felicitations on Natasha’s natal anniversary. Steve had taken a tentative sip of the contents, then—coughing hard and squinting through watery eyes at the multiple Natashas suddenly swimming in his vision—strongly advised her against ever imbibing. She’d pouted and messaged Thor her thanks for the ultimate compliment.

Steve had since taken another two shots, carefully and slowly, because it would be a shame to just let it all go to waste.

Natasha leaned her head back on his shoulder, rested against his side, and his enhanced senses caught the scent of her hair on the wind. She didn’t speak, but he was content to drop the subject. As another shooting star skidded overhead she caught her breath in awe, tilting her face up to the sky, and he felt the moment as a warm, almost furtive glow of pleasure lighting up his chest. Long after the shooting star had faded, she kept staring upward, and he found himself glancing up too, wondering what had her so rapt.

“For the longest time, growing up,” she said slowly, her tone far away, “I couldn’t feel anything. I couldn’t _let_ myself feel anything. It was a weakness, you know,” and she paused to take another swig from the latest bottle, as if to brace herself, or maybe reassure herself. “It clouds judgment, gets in the way: fear, anger, sadness. Admiration. Affection. It closes off options. They loved—“ She broke off, grinned a grimace, _“rewarded_ me for that, because most of the other girls got emotional fast, they said, but _I_ —I could dissociate better, compartmentalize better, and that’s always an advantage, if you’re going to survive. If you prefer to survive.”

He heard the wry twist of her mouth in her voice, the crack in her words, and wished he could do more than just squeeze her shoulder in a vaguely encouraging way. He’d seen her file, knew of some of her past, but would never be sure he could stand to know everything. He always found it a little hard to believe that all of that—all of those uncountable days and months and years of more pain and loss and death than he could probably ever imagine—distilled somehow into this woman who barely came up to his shoulder, who debated rock bands with Tony and joked around with Sam and gleefully sat Steve down to watch slasher films until he threatened to put his shield into the TV, because there was only so much gratuitous onscreen gore a hundred-year-old man raised in the ’20s could take. It awed him, what she’d made of what other people had made of her.

“After I defected, it was part of the whole thing I put myself through—getting myself back together again. Getting myself _back.”_ Her voice was low, but full of pride. “It took me a while, but once I started, I never cared to stop.” She looked up at him with a familiar smirk and arched eyebrow, her face tear-stained but somber. “So fuck you very much, Steve. It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.”

He hadn’t really had anything to say after that, especially not after she started to kiss him, and maybe they should have given him a double dose of super-serum if they wanted him to resist _that._ He was glad now he could remember her that way, vital and vivid and laughing breathlessly underneath him in her bed as he tried hard to please her, poured out far too many years of longing and restraint into his kisses as she gasped his name into his ear and ground against him needily. It hadn’t been the first time she’d growled her appreciation for his supersoldier stamina. Still, even he had been panting a little by the time she finally slumped on top of him, stifling a giggle of exhilaration against his chest, her blond-tipped curls a fragrant tangle in his nose. He’d held her gently, fascinated by the pounding of her heart only inches from his. 

“Don’t you wish, sometimes”—his own words, slow and low, had startled him in the stillness—“you could do it all over? Do it differently?” 

She’d taken a moment. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.” He’d heard her smirk in her voice, and the sadness she usually let him see in her eyes at the same time. “So, no, I don’t.”

 _But if I did,_ she hadn’t said, _I might._

Scott had turned up not a year later, and from then on it had all happened a little too fast; but Steve would remember her always with her excited, gamine grin, more hopeful and happy than he’d seen her in much too long. Her heart had been on her sleeve, as ever, when they all took their places at the machine; fondly, almost greedily, she had kept glancing over them, from one to another and another and back again, as if to reassure herself that they were all really there, or maybe to make sure she committed it all to memory: her family gathered at last, one more time. He liked to think that those green eyes—brighter than they’d been in a long while—might have lingered longest on him.

_See you in a minute._

In battle he had found himself repeatedly looking across the field, searching for the lithe black-clad shape of her without really knowing it. He’d kept glancing over to his side where she wasn’t, silence ringing in his ears where her voice didn’t. In the blinding blue flicker of his own lightning he remembered the blue spark of her gauntlets, smelled the ozone of her presence. Sam had been there, swooping and soaring, the same old constant, cheering babble of humor and strategy in Steve’s ear as if he’d never been gone; Bucky had been there too, all gunfire flash and vibranium gleam amidst the chaos. Even as Wakandan war cries filled the air and Steve’s heart felt like it would burst out of his chest with gladness he realized there was a new emptiness in him, angry and aching all over again. As the smoke slowly cleared and ashes settled all around him in an ear-popping silence that pushed him unpleasantly back five years, he couldn’t help staring around him at the blood- and dust-covered figures left standing here and there in the gloom, stunned, exhausted, victorious. Missing one.

There was plenty still to do. Triage. Treatment. Damage assessment. Salvage operations. Sam found him and hugged him, then Bucky was there and hugged him too. Or rather, Steve sagged into Bucky, who staggered for a moment in surprise then wordlessly, tenderly, bore his weight for long moments while Steve cried unashamedly into his shoulder. After that Steve hugged T’Challa and Shuri and Wanda, whose eyes he couldn’t quite meet and who, after a moment of searching his face, began to sob in his arms. He held her without a word, his own eyes now parched and burning. Everyone seemed to keep asking him where Nat was and he didn’t know what to say, until they stopped asking him and then he didn’t know what was worse. 

He and Thor and the boy carried Tony off. The suit weighed a ton, but removing it was unthinkable and Steve made do on his right shoulder. His shield arm had been fractured, the muscle ripped open.

As always, though, flesh and bone steadily knit itself back together as the hours passed. He was busy with everything and his mind was full of nothing at the same time. Several times he looked up to find Bucky watching him from across the field with the same worried frown he could remember from eighty years back. Steve found himself wondering what nickname Nat would have come up with for it and forced down a hysterical giggle. Bucky, still staring at him across the way, didn’t look reassured.

Gradually Pepper and Sam and Rhodey took over things, shooed Steve away, and he was left sitting by himself on a rock, clutching a fuzzy blanket that Scott had appeared out of nowhere to drape around his shoulders. Good old Scott, Steve thought absent-mindedly. He shivered in a sudden chill and, tucking the blanket more tightly around himself with his unsplinted arm, vaguely realized it was already nighttime. 

Up the slope from the lake the others had made dinner from what they’d salvaged from the compound’s supplies. People were chattering excitedly, making long-overdue introductions, catching up on five years lost. The mood was growing almost festive. Soon a deep voice cut through the hubbub, echoed in the trees—Strange was proposing a toast to Tony. Steve nodded along to the words until they gave way to a solemn chorus, then it was back to distant, disorganized clatter. Steve hoped nobody would think to look for him yet. At least not here.

Under the stars, alone in the blasted, cratered ruin that had been the Avengers facility, everything Natasha had last lived and touched and breathed lying in rubble and ash around him, Steve put his head in his hands and wept.

(to be continued)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait. I got stumped on something (you can probably guess what lol) and had to do lots of rewrites. But this is finally as done as it will ever be, so, fingers crossed, after some *ahem* minor editing, please expect the last chapters by the weekend. <3


	6. Chapter 6

On crisp late summer nights like this, when autumn was just beginning to bite in the air, they used to climb up the fire escape to the top of the tenement building, where they could hide amidst the flapping laundry and look out for what felt like miles above the rooftops to the pier and the glittering river. Sometimes when they scraped together enough from the paper route and the occasional dishwashing or sign-painting gig they would sneak a cigarette or a bottle of cheap and terrible beer, passing it back and forth between them on the lightest of puffs and smallest of sips until the very last of it, coughing, laughing, spluttering, feeling very grown-up and sophisticated. They would talk about everything and nothing for hours, smelling increasingly of sun and sweat between them: who’d dropped out of school because his mom couldn’t earn enough for both her sons, who’d joined the class in the middle of term because her dad had gotten a new job in town, who’d gotten caught with the latest bluesies but took the rap like a man instead of snitching on the owner (all in all, a real stand-up guy as far as everyone else was concerned). Sometimes Bucky would shadow-box in the corner, enthusiastically recounting his latest lesson at the gym while Steve lay on his stomach off to the side, swinging his feet, and doodled or did his homework. Later Bucky would talk about girls from school or at the dance halls and Steve would draw them, practicing faces and movements and poses. Bucky always suggested that they go on double dates together—he knew someone, or his lady friend knew someone, and they might be interested, c’mon, at least give her a chance—but Steve usually found a way out, and Bucky knew when to let up. As they got older they’d go over the newspaper together, scanning employment ads and wondering what a war might mean. At that time, they’d had plenty other problems to worry about first.

Hardly anybody in New York City hung up that much laundry to dry anymore. Instead Bucky picked his way past solar panels and cigarette butt-strewn potted plants to where Steve stood at the rooftop’s edge, gazing out to the river and the spangled skyline beyond.

The view, at least, was familiar enough.

“So what do you think?” Steve said, not turning as Bucky approached.

Bucky shrugged, even though Steve wouldn’t see. “Hell of a trip down memory lane.” Steve quirked a sheepish smile his way. “Definitely a bargain, though. What did Sam have to say?”

Steve grinned. “He said he’d take it only if you don’t want it. Or you could share,” and Bucky snorted.

“Birdbrain better not steal my socks. Haven’t had a lot of luck with roommates in my life, I don’t think.” 

Steve chuckled. “Yeah, he doesn’t even know how bad you snore yet.” 

The distant blast of a ship’s horn interrupted them, and as one they stared out toward the moonlit river. Some blocks away there was a street party, muffled bass thudding through echoes of giddy talk and laughter. Far away, police sirens whooped.

Steve glanced Bucky’s way. “You miss Wakanda?”

Bucky smiled. The sound of laughter drifted up from the street below, where a crowd of friends sat together on a stoop. “It’s been kind to me.”

Steve nodded, as if he’d expected that answer. He looked out over the view again, his jaw clenching visibly. “You’re in good hands with them.”

“Yes, I am. Better than I deserve. What’s this about, Steve,” and Bucky’s tone was flat, dry, because honestly, Steve’s poker face had not improved in eighty years and he was a little offended that Steve thought he didn’t know better.

And Steve gave a strangled sound, as if a laugh and a sob had nearly burst out of him at the same time and he’d just barely, frantically, grabbed them back. Bucky watched as Steve turned away, frowning to himself, hands fisting in his pockets. 

Bucky caught himself shifting restlessly from one foot to another. He’d never felt unsettled around his old friend before, not in what he thought of as his new life, where Steve meant to him nothing but sanctuary. But then this was a different Steve, Bucky had realized soon after he’d woken up from his five-year fever dream; a strange Steve, cool, terse, remote. Bucky had once recognized Steve taller, bulkier, looming over him indistinct out of the shadows in a nightmare. This one looked like the Steve he’d fought a war with, wore a similar outfit; but this Steve felt utterly foreign. 

“I’ll be leaving on another mission tomorrow,” said Steve at last, still staring out over the rooftops. “I gotta return all the stones we took.” He half turned, met Bucky’s gaze for barely a moment before looking away again. “I might not make it back.”

Bucky waited, but Steve was already gazing fixedly into the distance. “...Okay?”

Steve turned then, and Bucky almost took a physical step back at the grim, tired look on his face. Even during their darkest hours in the war, Steve had had a smile for him. “Well, what else do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. What you usually say.” Trying to tease, Bucky spread his hands in mock exasperation. “Where’s the pep talk? The rousing call to action? The open invitation to a valiant last stand?”

Steve’s short, bitter laugh brought Bucky up short. “I’ve learned sometimes people take it too seriously.”

 _Whatever it takes._ Bucky had heard the blue-skinned woman whisper that, down on her knee before the makeshift memorial Steve had put together in the middle of the ruins of the Avengers facility. Nebula, her name was. Said she kept losing sisters. Standing nearby, Steve had visibly flinched.

Bucky worried his lip. It was hard for him to see Steve in this light: unknown territory, to be navigated with unaccustomed caution. “All right,” he said slowly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. Who’s going with you, at least?”

Steve barked another flinty laugh, then broke off abruptly, as if he’d noticed too. “Well, Nat’s gone, and Tony’s dead, and everybody else’s got kind of their own thing to do, so...”

Something was beginning to burn and ache in Bucky’s throat. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “about Natalia.” He didn’t feel he had a right to use the more intimate names Steve knew her by.

For a moment Steve stood in silence. Then he sighed and slumped onto a battered plastic bench nearby, burying his face in his hands. Bucky hesitated, then went and sat down too.

“She was good for you, I thought,” Bucky went on after a beat, when Steve didn’t move. “I was glad she was there to watch your back. ‘Cause someone always has to,” and he aimed an exaggeratedly wry look at Steve.

Steve’s attempt at a chuckle drowned in his throat. “Yeah, she was something all right.” He scrubbed a hand wearily over his face, wiping off tears Bucky didn’t comment on. “I wish you could’ve gotten to know each other, Buck. You’d’ve loved her. She was the real deal.”

Bucky gripped him by the shoulder in silent support. He’d done it often during the war; he wondered if Steve remembered too. 

“There’s a lot of time we’ll never get back, I guess.” Bucky’s tone was flat with years of well-trodden grief. “It’s like all we’ve been doing for so long is just chase after each other.”

For a moment Steve sat staring at his hands in his lap. Bucky watched him out the corner of his eye, loath to interrupt his thoughts. 

“When you fell...” Steve trailed off, cleared his throat. Bucky squeezed his shoulder wordlessly. They’d talked about that time, but he knew Steve still had nightmares about it. “Peggy found me being an idiot. She told me to respect your decision.” His grin was humorless. “I didn’t last a week.”

“I know,” Bucky said dryly. Steve exhaled a chuckle.

“You know, I saw her,” Steve continued after a moment, as if suddenly remembering. “Peggy. When Tony and I went back. I saw her in her office.”

Bucky quirked a corner of his mouth. “Isn’t _that_ a blast from the past. How was she?”

“I didn’t get to talk to her, but”—Steve shrugged, scuffed his boot against concrete—“she looked well.”

Bucky eyed him, took in the slouch of his profile. Disquiet didn’t suit Steve, either. Whether in a hovel of a Bucharest apartment or a back alley in Brooklyn, the Steve Bucky knew and loved wore even vulnerability like brightly polished armor, the better to blind his enemies with. But this Steve seemed to have stopped looking for the fight altogether. “Didn’t she get married after the war and have five dozen kids or something?” 

Steve grunted in half-hearted protest. “Just the two, I think.”

Bucky stared at him, but Steve, this unrecognizable Steve, pretended not to notice. After another moment of this, Bucky turned away, tucking his hands back in his pockets. He blamed the crisp wind that suddenly rose to riffle his hair, blind him with his own tears. “You deserved that happy ending, Steve. You and Agent Carter. I know you were crazy about her. You remember, we used to talk about it? What we’d do when the war was over? We used to talk about it all the time.”

And Bucky didn’t have to look. He knew Steve remembered: half-whispered conversations in the dead of night, the cockeyed grins Bucky would give him when he left his open compass lying around again. Bucky knew his grin this time was coming out more like a grimace. “A hell of a long time ago.”

When Steve finally turned toward him again, Bucky had to steel himself against the sudden odd light in his midnight eyes.

“You should come with me, Buck.” Steve was hopeful, almost pleading. If Bucky closed his eyes, he could pretend it was 1928 again and they were just a couple of kids hauling from one amusement park ride to the next. “It’d blow your mind. It’s like all those books you kept reading back in the day. We could go see outer space together and—and aliens, but good ones, like Rocket and that psychic girl and. Y’know. _Everything.”_

 _Everything._ Wasn’t that an idea. For a moment Bucky let Steve’s awed voice take him away, as if wormholes and time travel meant just the newly opened sideshow at Coney Island, hotdogs and cotton candy at Central Park. 

But Bucky exhaled a shaky laugh. “You know I’d love that, Steve. But I... I gotta stay here. Stuff to do. Goats to feed.” He’d shaped history before. He wasn’t going out of his way to do it again. “Things to try to make right.” 

A thought struck Bucky then, and he gave a watery chuckle. “And Shuri would find a way to kill me if I disappeared now with her arm prototype.”

Steve’s half-smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. Instead he looked haunted, vulnerable; unashamedly so, just like old times, and Bucky immediately felt guilty. “You have no idea the things I wish I could do with those stones, Buck.”

Bucky said nothing, afraid of what he might say to Steve.

“You know, after a while—when you were gone...” Steve stared dully at nothing. “There was a part of me that almost wanted to think it was better that way. That you were better off...” He swallowed hard. _Dead,_ Bucky thought. “I thought that maybe you’d suffered enough. I thought maybe I was selfish for wishing you back.”

In his pocket, Bucky absent-mindedly flexed his metal fingers. Only recently had he realized he kept waiting for the old, subtle sound of whirring mechanisms, shifting plates; but Shuri’s vibranium arm was silent, efficient, intuitive.

“You knew I would’ve wanted the choice, Pollyanna,” Bucky said.

Steve smiled wearily.

“Anyway, I heard Banner said you can’t change the past.” Bucky hadn’t asked; Sam had simply told him. Then as now, Bucky opted to feel relief more than anything else that there wasn’t even a decision to be made. “But you go if you want to, Steve. Take a break. You gotta have earned some vacation time by now,” and for this at least Bucky’s grin, crooked as ever, was genuine. “Pretty sure the space hammer agrees with me, too.” 

Steve met his gaze then, and Bucky consoled himself with the dim glimmer of warmth in his eyes. “When you’re ready to come back, Sam and I’ll be right here.”

He paused, gathering himself. He clenched his metal fist, still hidden in his pocket. Silently, slowly, Steve was shaking his head beside him.

Bucky supposed he’d laugh, looking back on this later. Just two old, broken men, barely still held together by spit and sheer stubbornness, long since tired of the fight. He’d never thought Steve would become tired like he was, but Bucky had turned his back for the blink of an eye that turned out to last five whole goddamn years and somehow Steve had. And Bucky was the last person on earth who would let him pretend he hadn’t. Whatever else Bucky felt about it.

“This is the end of the line, buddy.” When Steve stiffened, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye, so he slung his arm around Steve’s shoulders, clapped him hard on the arm. “Like you said to me that time. Well, I’m drawing it now. I’m drawing the damn line for you and you’re free to go.” Frowning, Steve drew a breath and Bucky knew, clear as a summer day in Sheep Meadow, what he was going to say: _It’s not like you’re a ball and chain, Buck._ “You know what I mean,” Bucky said shortly, because he was sounding choked up enough already and he didn’t have to like it.

Steve slumped over, elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands again with a sigh. Bucky ruffled his blond hair fondly, silky strands gliding through flesh fingers. The old Steve would have argued if only for the sake of arguing, would have grumbled while his cheeks turned steadily pink with mulishness. The old Steve hadn’t had much more than words to fight with. Bucky still believed he’d learned his sniper’s patience early on with Steve so constantly around.

Then again, the old Steve would have wobbled right off the bench with Bucky’s thwack on his arm. Bucky supposed he couldn’t begrudge his old friend yet more of these changes. Even if he wasn’t sure these were really for the better. Even if it meant goodbye.

Steve looked up at him then, his face a dull, splotchy red. “Some whiner Captain America turned out to be, huh?”

Bucky reached out and pulled him close, and nearly got the breath squeezed out of him in return. Steve dropped his head on Bucky’s shoulder, hid his face in the fall of Bucky’s hair. Bucky tightened his arms around Steve’s broad back and ignored the impulse to let go before he really wanted to. So much of their time had already felt stolen.

“I only know a Steve Rogers,” Bucky muttered. “Some stupid punk who keeps getting himself into trouble whenever I’m not looking.”

Steve laughed in his ear, surprised and heartbroken, and Bucky allowed himself a sad smile. Bucky knew that laugh from at least 1934. It would have to be enough.

“Take care of Sam for me, will ya?”

Bucky chuckled unsteadily. “No.”

(to be continued)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..........Endgame!Steve, what a doozy.


	7. Chapter 7

As the desolate gray landscape took form around him he saw a flash of bright light off to his side, and even as he instinctively turned his head in that direction Steve knew it was Clint, gone back to their time. 

Had it really only been a week ago? It felt like much longer in his bones.

He had put this off for last, had felt faint to the pit of his stomach every time he even thought about it. It was an unfamiliar, maddening kind of dread, something he hadn’t felt during the war, not in the face of alien hordes, not even when he stood before them bleeding with a shattered shield, all alone. It was a dread born of wanting something so badly he didn’t dare put it in words lest even those be taken from him, yet being utterly at a loss for how to seek it, let alone earn it, claim it. He was used to hard work, unafraid of uneven odds. He had faced down monsters and gods, but this was a powerlessness that shook him to the core and left him without the comfort at least of answers, or even anyone to ask questions of.

But now there were no more excuses, nowhere else left for him to go. It was irrational, he knew, but as he gazed up the endless upward stairway, the first few snowflakes pricking his cheeks, he found himself hefting the briefcase restlessly in his hand. He opened it just to check—so he told himself—and the stone beamed out its golden-yellow light at him.

 _Her_ stone, he reminded himself as he lifted his feet up the first of many, many steps. He wanted to call it that. She’d paid enough of a price for it.

The bone-weariness bit through him colder than ever when the bloody-faced creature materialized in front of him as he climbed the last few steps to the rocky plateau, and his most incredulous suspicions were confirmed.

“You,” he breathed, venomous despite his fatigue.

“Yes, Steven, son of Sarah,” hissed the wraith, its voice reverberating icy and weatherbeaten like the ancient mountain itself, “defender against the Mad Titan, wielder of the Allfather’s hammer, it is I; even as it is no longer I.”

Steve could only stare in contempt. “Well, whatever you think you are now, I’m glad you finally found somewhere you belong.”

“I said to you, in that other life: we already left humanity behind.” The vivid red visage stretched into a taut, ghastly smile. “What is your business here?”

Gritting his teeth against the urge to look away from that monstrous face, Steve held up his briefcase. “Putting this thing back where it came from.”

Steve turned his back on the creature, toward the massive floating monoliths and the channel cut deep in the blackened stone between, leading unerringly, inexorably, to the precipice beyond. Steve shuddered despite himself. Clint had described the place accurately.

“The exchange was complete. The stone was taken. The sacrifice shall not be undone.” The words slithered through the howl of the wind as Steve slowly descended the steps toward the cliff. He wasn’t sure that the creature wasn’t speaking directly into his mind, splintering his very thoughts, pitiless in its truth. “A soul for a soul.”

The stone was slippery and indifferent in his hand and sent a bitter chill seeping through his glove, prickling through his fingers. He forced himself to take the last, wooden steps toward the edge, and with a final effort, he looked.

The bloodstained ledge, far, far below, was empty.

He blinked, and for a moment it was the craggy Alpine abyss staring back at him, feathery Alpine snow stinging his eyes shut.

He staggered back and sank to his knees.

An everlasting exchange, Clint had said.

Then the tears came, and he gripped the stone in one hand, scrabbled blindly at the ground with the other as a white-hot wave of misery washed over him, flooded through him, dimmed his vision and seemed to drive the breath out of him. As he gasped he wondered hazily if he were having an asthma attack again, as he hadn’t in a long, long time.

He would welcome it, he thought desperately, and he tightened his grasp on the stone even as he laughed at himself for thinking somehow it could hear him, would hear him if he just begged hard enough. He would let it all go, he knew, would give it all up in a heartbeat if the stone gave her back, if it would take one for the other, just to set everything to rights again. The crooked bones, the catch and rattle of his own breath in his lungs, the constant pain, the shame, the dizzy spells, the weakness: He’d lived it all and would live it again. It seemed reasonable enough, seemed fair—a miracle for a miracle. It was all he had left. Steve squeezed his eyes shut against his own illogic and for a long moment he lay still, hot face pressed to the frozen dirt, as the roiling heat of emotion finally started to give way to a cold, empty stillness he knew all too well. This time, however, there was an ashy tang of finality at the back of his mouth.

He had failed Bucky—so many times over—and now he’d failed Natasha too.

He had hoped it would pass, this chill, dank thing constantly smothering his thoughts and his heart and sometimes his very breath. Natasha had known, but even she and her loving support and the fire she always lit under his skin hadn’t been able to drive the darkness away for good. Then Steve had thought it might pass after Thanos was defeated, when the smoke cleared and the day was won and the world was at last reset and he could tell himself that Nat hadn’t died in vain. But the dust had long since settled and the last of the crackling electric rush of Mjolnir’s lightning faded from Steve’s blood, and Bucky had still been giving him worried looks and all the excited plans to rebuild better than ever left only a familiar hollow sensation in the pit of Steve’s stomach. He could only remind himself that the least he could do was not lay this on Bucky now. Not when Bucky was finally back and had a real chance to make a life for himself again. 

He thought of Peggy, prettier and more self-assured than ever in her middle age, and the longing that had surprised him with its sudden single-minded intensity as he’d watched her in her office. He thought of the life he’d always thought he’d lost with her, the world that had passed him by while he’d slept in the ice, the times in his twenty-first-century everyday busyness when he’d unconsciously slowed down to watch an elderly couple walk their dogs together, sit on a park bench together, laugh and bicker and cradle grandchildren together. He’d thought yearningly at the time of the enviable stability of it all and he thought yearningly of it again now: what a comfort it would be to wake up to the same person everyday, what an escape to be safe and normal and ordinary, plot a life that made sense in a future without surprises, without threats, without risk. 

A white picket fence, 2.54 children, maybe a dog. He’d been half joking that starry night a lifetime ago outside Strasbourg—or had it been Belgium, or Poland, or Czechoslovakia?—and Bucky had laughed only a little bit. They’d shared the dream between them, as they had everything else.

And not too long ago Steve had almost let himself think he could actually have all of that with Natasha, and even better, because with her, life in all its vivid, thrilling unpredictability had called to him, inspired him. With her limitless resilience and her unbending will, she’d made him feel he could be the hellraising, idealistic punk Bucky before her had always laughed exasperatedly at and rescued and nursed back to health and Erskine, bless his soul, had given the strength to finally match to his beliefs. She’d taken down SHIELD with him. She’d stolen Sam’s wings with him. She’d helped him bring Bucky back, and for that alone, Steve would have done anything for her.

But now Nat was dead, and Bucky deserved to move on in the brave new world, and Steve didn’t feel like he should.

He thought again of Peggy. The memory of their rushed, desperate kiss in Schmidt’s car had begun to slip lately, but Steve clutched at it like he clutched at his old compass, grabbed the memory back needily as the one good, shining thing he might still be sure of. He’d suffered enough, he told himself. He had the Pym particles. He’d earned a rest. Even Bucky had said so.

Steve tried not to think of the sad look in Bucky’s eyes when he’d said that.

Steve felt something stir on the ground near his head and he jolted up, hoping against hope; but it was the Stonekeeper again, rippling soundlessly closer. The lightless hollows of its eyes were fixed upon the the stone in Steve’s hand, the soft yellow glow like flames across that blood-red face.

“Soul holds a special place among the Infinity Stones. You might say it has a certain wisdom.” Steve shivered from the languid, glacial sweep of the voice in his head. “It demands sacrifice. Those who would use the power of the stone must understand that power. They must lose that which they love.”

Steve thought of Clint, and Clint’s face when his phone had suddenly begun to ring. Steve thought of Tony, Pepper, Peter; Sam, and the open misery Steve had all but run away from in Bucky’s face. Steve knew what sacrifice was.

“Is this a test?” he shouted desperately, jarred by the way his voice echoed across the barren rock.

Fathomless empty eyes lifted to his and it reminded him of facing down Thanos’s armies all over again, but Steve gritted his teeth, stood fast, as always.

“It is the price.” There might have been a lilt to the disembodied voice, amused, offended, correcting, a prim schoolteacher to an overexcited pupil. “A soul for a soul. A life for a life.”

Steve had pulled out his compass without thinking and he thumbed it open now to that well-worn picture, Peggy who had kissed him good luck and goodbye. Through so much it had been his talisman, a reminder of what he’d been, what he’d lost. His thoughts were a rushing blur in his head, but Erskine’s miracle heart beat strong and steady. Steve snapped the compass shut and grasped it tightly in one hand, the stone in the other. 

“Then take mine,” he said, and leaping forward, he thought he saw a gleam in the dark sockets of the Stonekeeper’s eyes.

It was a lot farther down than it had looked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with this fic so far. Almost done! This has not been an easy thing to write at all, for all that I couldn't seem to get on with my life without at least trying, and I hope not to let anybody down, but anyway please rest assured I can't stand unhappy endings :)


	8. Chapter 8

_It wasn’t the Stork Club, but that wouldn’t have been their scene anyway. Instead it was cozy inside and balmy outside, sunshine filtering in the still-open doorway, and he could hear birdsong, the occasional rumble and hum of a car driving by, as they swayed together to his favorite song. She fit lush and supple in his arms and he held her as tightly as he dared, not wanting to hurt her, not wanting to ever let her go again. It was everything he’d ever dared to dream of and more. Over her old-fashioned perfume he could smell starched linen and sun-warmed wood and fresh-cut grass and he ached all over again for the time he’d never thought he could take back. Nobody starched anything anymore in the 21st century._

_He startled at the feather-light drop of a tear on his shirt and looked down into the face he’d thought he’d only ever see again in a faded newsprint cut-out. He kissed her slowly, gently, never wanting to stop. He’d waited long enough._

The pain wrenched Steve awake with a scream, tearing through his whole body like he was an old, misshapen break ruthlessly being re-broken to be reset. It ripped through his chest and brought tears to his eyes and pulled him upright with a gasp in the tepid, shallow water as he reached out for warmth that wasn’t there. His hands closed on dank, empty air. 

He breathed raggedly. It had felt so _real._ He’d been so _close._

The sullen cloud-blotted sky of Vormir gaped above him, baleful with the rays of an eclipsed sun.

He glanced wildly down at himself, even patted himself through his suit. No, he was still the same. Nothing had changed. The pain he’d woken up to had already faded. He closed his eyes.

His offer had been rejected. He had failed. Again. 

But somebody coughed, choked, spluttered, and when he whirled in that direction it was Nat, staggering to her feet with a splash and turning wide green eyes to him.

“Steve? What the hell is going on? Where’s Clint?”

For all her confusion she let him hug her breathless, even smiled at him uncertainly when he finally stepped back just to hold her face in his hands and look at her, really look at her. Then he hugged her again as she squeaked out a startled laugh at him. The Black Widow would’ve gutted him first, Steve thought, his head still spinning.

“What happened?” she asked gently when he had stopped trembling so much.

Sniffling, he stroked her waterlogged hair. “We won.”

She hugged him back tight then, blowing out a long and shaky breath in relief. “You don’t look like we won,” she chuckled in his ear. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.” Then she froze on a sudden thought and narrowed her eyes up at him. “Did you just create a new timeline? Like Bruce specifically told us not to do?”

He grinned through his tears. “Figured this one’s already kinda ruined anyway. Ow!” Wincing, he held his arm where she’d socked him. Yeah, this time it was real all right. “I’ll fill you in on the way. But, y’know”—he might as well be honest—“I was kinda going to do it anyhow.”

She eyed him for a moment, questioning, and then her gaze softened. 

She always understood. “You still can, you know. It’s not like I’m gonna stop you or anything.”

“No.” He’d already checked. He’d lost the compass. It didn’t really matter now where or how. “It’s okay.” He smiled at her. “This is selfish enough as it is.” 

_A life for a life._

“I’m sorry.” She stared at him, eyes luminous and nearly blue in the half-light. “I owe you. Again.”

“No,” he repeated, shaking his head. “You’ve saved me so many times already.” He grinned sheepishly. “You know I’m just glad I was good for something this time.”

She exhaled a laugh. “Yeah, ‘cause you’re useless the rest of the time.” She tugged him close for another hug and he melted in her arms, liquid with having missed her, nearly giddy with a lightness he hadn’t felt in years. Her arms around him were trembling with emotion, but strong and steady. Small as she was, somehow she’d always been able to hold him up. “Total deadweight on the team,” and her whisper was ragged with unshed tears. “I really don’t know why we kept you around so long.”

Then she felt his tears soaking fast and hot into her collar and she wondered why she was holding back. She cried with him, happy and sad at the same time and grateful, so grateful.

They started the long trek back toward the ship. After a few steps, she slipped her hand in his. Steve bit back a grin, wound their fingers together as he filled her in on everything she’d missed. She said little, although she quirked her eyebrow at him when he told her about Mjölnir and a smile curled at the corner of her mouth.

“You can go anywhere now. Be anyone.”

“It’s every defected former spy’s dream. Lemme just check my calendar though, my schedule’s packed pretty tight. What about you?”

“You know me, it’s Saturday night, I’m wide open. Hey, I’ll give you some extra Pym particles later on the jet. Shuri made some adjustments, I’ll lend you the manual.”

“Just the kind of light reading I came back from the dead for. Didn’t Tony say something once about—thirteen, fourteen million alternative timelines?”

“Yeah, he... he was quoting that Doctor Strange guy.”

“Well, now that this one’s shot to hell, I can think of a few ways we might as well mess it up some more.”

“Sounds good to me. Can we make a pit stop though? Personal errand. Y’know, if we’re doing this anyway...”

“Yeah, sure.” She smiled up at him. Steve couldn’t help squeezing her hand. She always understood. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

(end)

* * *

(...post-credits scene)

“...I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it! I can’t believe _you.”_

“What?? I’m coming right back—”

“Really, Steve? You’re going to try that on me? Ugh, you and your _moping,_ honestly.”

“Aww c’mon, he’ll be fine...”

“He’ll never forgive you. And he shouldn’t. If he ever does I’ll come back and haunt him and make him start hating you all over again. What were you _thinking?_ God, I leave you alone for like literally a _minute_ and this is what you come up with—”

“See, this is why I had to come get you.”

“You know your sad-puppy eyes stopped working on me a long time ago, right? —And you guys let _Loki_ loose in the universe again? You know how much he loves to mess with us. You in particular.”

“...Uh. We were kind of busy...”

Natasha sighed. “Move over, I’ll drive.”

And the ship disappeared into a jump.

(end, really this time)

(The title comes from this part of Neil Gaiman's timeless "Death: The Time of Your Life"--)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for sticking this out to the end. Thank you for all the feedback and comments even though I've not been very good at keeping up with those! I hope this ending managed to satisfy at least a little bit. <3 I'm also grateful to an awesome fandom that has come up with much more interesting ideas for fixing the Endgame mess, like the Loki theory which is really my favorite to date. I'm looking forward to a far braver and more talented writer to flesh that one out. ;)


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